I am Jack
by windwhisprer
Summary: .:oneshot:. I am Jack's enraged sense of betrayal...


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I am Jack

I am Jack's enraged sense of betrayal.

Dripping like candle wax down, over the curve of flesh. Dripping, dripping, boiling and burning until skin steals my warmth, and the wax hardens, anger simmers, until it is merely a blotch of hardened scar-tissue. Impossible to remove, a reminder of the wax that burned, burned, burned on my slow descent.

Don't forget me.

I am Jack's simmering jealousy.

Like water on a pot, I wait. The explosion will come, in due time, and until then the bubbles slowly make their way to the surface, gasping, gasping for air as they pop. Like boiling sores on the back of a fire-victim, bubbling, bubbling until they explode in a mass of puss and blood, dripping until hot fluids meet hotter sand. Simmer, simmer, simmer. Patience, patience, like she speaks into Mordred's ear, jealousy has much patience. It turns and twists and grows. It becomes something more, corrupting, until vision is blinded by red.

The clock's ticking.

I am Jack's explosive rage.

Like a bomb, I sat, until finally the seconds ticked down, the wrong words escaped and I explode. Words tumble from lips at an alarming rate, spiteful words that are merely hatred forming letters. Blood dots the floor of a living room carpet, staining, staining, staining until the imprints become a part of its very appeal. Like the new furniture set from Ikea. Covered in the waste of another, prior used, prior lived and died, welcome and waiting to be sold to another.

Welcome, consumerism.

I am Jack's never ending depression.

In the hours of the night, the clock ticks away a second more and more of life, towards death. And as you turn the wheel, I am there, ready to embrace and consume you in an everlasting sense of eternity. Maddening, watching the bare meat hung on the wall, blood dripping to a small pool on the floor, one you'll eventually have to clean up. And I'm there, embracing you, hating you, and quietly whispering nothings in your ear. Peaceful nothings.

It's okay. You can do it. It's all okay now...

I am Jack's increasing and consuming love.

Heart's joy, growing, growing, growing until the explosion comes and you drift through the air. Pieces of flesh, of being, of soul floating and gently falling, resting comfortably in the palm of a gentle, tanned hand. Sins of the past washed away with gentle kisses, hatred lifted with small smiles and love filling the holes in which depression had dug. Peace, freely flying through clouds and air, and finally a safe place to rest his heart's gentle wings. Freeness, floating, falling.

Mind the rocks.

I am Jack's inflamed sense of rejection.

Starlight glistens like gems in an otherwise blackened sky. Nothing, no love to fill the crevices and cracks. Pain begins to swirl and swell, like water filling lungs. Can't breathe, can't fight the weight settling in your chest. It's too late to fight, for the water has consumed you, filled all the way to the back of your eyeballs, leaking out like falsified tears and pouring like rivers from your mouth.

And you stand there. And you pretend to scream.

I am Jack's sense of loneliness.

Death smiles crookedly on a broken moon, hanging limply in the sky, like a controller in your hand. I am here. Here in the darkest corners of your mind, I am there, standing in the doorway to the kitchen. Every step, feet are plunged in nails that root you to the ground, and there is no screaming or crying because there is no blood, no evidence of pain. Nothing except the blood on the carpet. It's terribly outdated. Flip through catalogues in the hope to find something to cover the stain.

On your floor. In your life.

I am Jack's suicidal urge.

Time is a circle, a cycle, that leads one back to the start. Running only increases the speed at which your cycle turns, and soon you are back where you started; the blood on the floor, on your hands, the stylish design it stains into the walls. Like dripping meat your back, watching, waiting. Take a drink; you'll clean it up later. Now, how many rounds can you get into your skull before the clock strikes twelve? It's all meat, fat in the asses of rich women. You're just meat, and there'll be someone to sip scotch while watching the blood drip onto the floor. Someone to clean up after you.

Russian Roulette.

I am Jack.

Would you like to purchase some soap?

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A/N: Not an original idea, but I liked it. C&C appreciated.


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